


Please Not Now

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Horrid timing, Love Confessions, M/M, Pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's best man speech was a love confession. Bloody hell. John realises this partway through. </p><p>Not sure where this is going besides the fact that I need them to end up together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).



 

 

It wasn't the first time he'd found himself saying that phrase and he was sure it wouldn't be the last, it was just that this time his brain was almost screaming it at him, screaming in a soft voice, if that were possible. No, not soft, broken. So not screaming then, more exclaiming. It felt like screaming though, with all the images flowing over him, drowning him in this revelation, this horrific realisation that this time, this bloody time, he'd really buggered things up. 

'What have I done?' it asked, as though out of breath, perhaps out of life. 

The panic curled in his stomach and he grimaced slightly as he attempted to tamp it down like coffee grounds. It seemed to be spilling over as tears pricked his eyes and Mary squeezed his arm. She probably thought it was just happiness. This was supposed to be the happiest day of his life, after all. Their life. The beginning of their life. Oh, bloody hell. 

'The best and bravest man I know.'

How the hell had he not seen it? Hmm? How in the hell had he not seen how fucking mutual the feeling was? 

Bloody hero worship, he told himself. There's nothing more to it than that. He tried to convince himself. Sherlock had even said it, that he fancied him a hero. He felt safe in the notion, safe in that small corner where he told himself the beating of his heart, the near palpitations when they stood close to each other, was just some sort of obsession. That he was remembering how it felt to run through the streets after the madman and that was what was happening. 

Simple transference. 

Only it wasn't simple, was it? Nothing ever was with Sherlock. Sherlock bloody Holmes, the one person who knew John better than himself, the one person who saw him as he was. Broken but brave. Not willing to give up. 

So why had he given up on them? And why the hell was he honestly considering keeping his mouth shut? Why was he biting his tongue at that very moment and clenching his eyes closed. 

"Did I do it wrong?" Sherlock asked, pulling John from his thoughts and to his feet.


	2. As You Can Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks have passed and John think he's maybe got up the courage to see Sherlock again. Sherlock's demons have already come out to play. Can John face them?

It took two weeks for John to come to his senses. Well, two weeks tacked on to all those years. He supposed he could let himself off the hook for the time Sherlock was away but even then...it had taken too long. 

"Sherlock." he shouted through the closed, and surprisingly enough locked, door. "Sherlock, I need to talk to you, open up." 

The door swung open and John took a slight step back. He was certain the genetics were the same but if asked he would say that no, this was not HIS Sherlock. Perhaps someone else's, but very much not his. 

"Well, are you coming in or not?" the man before him groaned. 

John's eyebrows knit impressively, deep creases from stress deepening still. He'd noted himself in the mirror as he was leaving the house (going out with Mike, he'd told Mary) and that had been a mistake. He looked like shit. Drawn. Tired in the way a man just back from his honeymoon shouldn't be. 

He quite suddenly felt immensely better about his own appearance. 

"Are you okay?" he asked, following Sherlock to where he sat at the kitchen table. 

"I'm perfectly fine. Perfectly. Now why are you here?" Sherlock replied shortly. 

"I was...well, I was worried about you. You left the wedding early and we talked a few times since then but..." John cleared his throat and stood a bit taller. "You look horrible." 

Sherlock sat back with a huff and rolled his eyes. "Still so very observant, John. I'm quite busy, can this wait or would you like to get to the point?" 

John's face fell, crumpled, and Sherlock had to look away. He really didn't want to do this. It was unfortunately the only way. He couldn't let John close anymore. It had been a mistake to let him close in the first place. Mycroft was right. 

Sherlock scratched at his left arm at the thought and then went back to picking at the edge of the table. That's what he did now. He picked. His hand went impulsively back to his arm. He felt as if he'd been picking his own skin off that whole last month. 

"Jesus! Stop that, you're bleeding!" John shouted, rushing forward and stilling Sherlock's hand. 

He drew it away and the taller man glanced down. Well, he was. Interesting. 

"What in the hell is going on, Sherlock? You're filthy and your hair needs a trim and you just fucking made yourself bleed!" John asked agitatedly, running a hand through his newly cropped hair and breathing fiercely through his nose. 

Sherlock stood and stomped towards the window in the sitting room, throwing it open and sticking his head out to breathe in the air. It would rain soon. Very soon. 

"I'm busy, John. Don't you have a wife to attend to or something?" he snarled. 

Must be harsh. Must be cruel to be kind. He wasn't sure where he'd heard that before but it seemed to fit now. John wanted Mary and Mary wanted John and he was left at the side alone. That was alright. He was good at alone. Or he had been. 

He snapped out of it as a strong hand gripped his wrist and pulled him towards the loo. He was going to protest, fill his next sentence with more vitriol, but something was happening to his vocal cords. His whole chest felt tight and every ounce of his being seemed to be drawn to where John's left thumb was brushing across the soft skin of his inner wrist. John would know. John would feel his racing heartbeat and he would know!  
"You need a bath." John stated, sitting Sherlock forcibly on the closed lid of the toilet and turning on the tap. 

"What are you doing here, John?" Sherlock asked softly, hoping his voice sounded less pathetic than the voice in his head was telling him it was. 

"I told you, I was worried. Greg said you aren't taking cases right now and I just...take off your clothes." John replied. 

Sherlock felt a flush creeping up his neck, treacherous blood flow. He looked up with what must have been worry, but felt more like hope, let's be bloody honest, and John sighed and stopped up the tub. 

"Sherlock, look, you really do need to get cleaned up. This isn't the first time you've bathed in front of me but if you want me to leave I will." John sounded defeated. 

"No. Stay." Sherlock breathed out, almost unwilling to admit the words came from his own mouth. 

"I'll just put the kettle on for tea, yeah?" John asked, concerned smile playing at the left corner of his mouth. 

Sherlock nodded and stood to drop his dressing gown to the floor and remove his pajama trousers. 

_____

'What have you done' turned to 'what are you doing?' as John filled the bright red electric kettle and set it on the round base. He really shouldn't be there. He really should have been making tea at home for his wife. He shoved the thought aside and walked back to the loo. 

Sherlock was sitting in the tub facing out with his arms around his knees, pulling himself into as much of a crouch as he could. John sat Indian style on the floor and brushed a hand across his knee. 

"When did you start up again?" he asked, voice hesitant to make its way out of his throat. 

There was a long silence where neither man moved and Sherlock seemed not to breathe. When he finally did it was a horrible thing, pulling air from the room loudly. 

"It's just been a few times. Three. Three times. I just needed help with the last case and you were gone-not that I blame you-" Sherlock's eyes shot open as he continued, "I don't. I know this is my fault. I just-there was too much quiet and there wasn't enough you." 

John felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and sniffed once before picking up a flannel and bar of soap. He lathered it and ran it down Sherlock's side. Sherlock turned himself further away, pushing his back against the wall and eyes wide. 

"What's wrong?" John asked, not used to seeing fear in the other man's eyes. 

"You'll want to talk about them but I really can't right now so I think I need you to wait outside and the water is ready so you should have a cuppa now please." Sherlock spit, rattled beyond even what John had seen at Baskerville. 

"O-okay." John murmured, setting the flannel down and moving to stand. "I'll be right out here." 

Sherlock nodded once, a pained little thing, and John left the room. 

_____

John made himself tea and sipped it slowly as he paced. He had no clue what Sherlock meant, not a damn clue. What he did know was that something very wrong was going on. He fished his mobile from the pocket of his jacket as he walked across the flat to close the window now that the sky was darkening and it was beginning to rain. 

"Hello?" Mary said, sounding a bit stunned. 

She must have already gone to bed. John kicked himself for waking her. 

"Hey, yeah, um, Sherlock's not doing well so I'm thinking if it's alright with you I'll stay the night here." he replied softly. 

"Oh. Oh, that's, yes, that'll be fine, John. You stay there and take care of him. I'll see you tomorrow." Mary said, shoving David back to John's side of the bed and trying to focus on whether or not John had noticed something was off with her voice. 

"Alright. Well, yeah, I'll see you then." John said. 

"Goodbye, John." she murmured before ringing off. 

John stuck his phone back in his pocket and sighed deeply. He slipped his jacket off and finally removed his shoes and socks. The floor was cool under his feet as he padded to Sherlock's bedroom to find him a clean pair of pajama trousers and a t-shirt. He was just turning the shirt inside out, like Sherlock liked it, when the detective walked in clean and damp. 

"I think I'll spend the night. If that's okay." John said, setting the clothes on the bed and fidgeting slightly. 

"Yes, John." Sherlock's voice rumbled out of him. 

John nodded nervously and left the room. 

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked as he filled the kettle a second time and set it to boil. 

"You don't want to know." Sherlock replied. 

John breathed deeply and went to fetch his mobile again, dialing the number for their favorite place from memory and sitting on the sofa. 

"Indian alright?" he asked as Sherlock made his way out of the bedroom with a towel still around his shoulders. 

The younger man nodded and John put in the order. When he was finally done on the phone John set it aside and stood to pour the hot water into a mug for Sherlock. The action felt so familiar that he wanted to scream. He'd missed this flat, this bloody tea kettle, the chipped mugs and mismatched dishes. He held onto the edge of the cook top for a second to get ahold of himself before looking through the cabinet for some sugar. 

When he got back to the sitting room Sherlock was on the floor in front of the couch looking out the window at the darkened sky. His curls dripped slowly onto the towel around his neck and down the side of his face. 

"If you don't dry your hair you'll be freezing soon. You left the window open, you know." John said as he set the tea in front of Sherlock and sat on the sofa next to him. 

Sherlock shrugged and John chuckled lightly. He reached down impulsively to run his fingers through the wet tendrils and Sherlock shivered. 

"Fine. I'll do it. I honestly don't know how you get along..." John trailed off as he rubbed the towel through Sherlock's hair. 

"I don't." Sherlock replied softly. 

John was going to ignore it, ignore his own blunder and the answer, but Sherlock turned slightly as met his eyes. 

"As you can tell." Sherlock added. 

John licked his lips nervously and was able to breathe a bit easier when Sherlock looked back out the window. He still felt horrible but at least when Sherlock wasn't looking at him with that blank face and those remarkable eyes he could pretend everything was okay. Maybe that's why Sherlock didn't want to see him, maybe he felt the same way.


	3. Exactly What It Looks Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys order in.

The food came a half hour after Sherlock had finally settled next to John on the sofa. John was hesitant to leave his side to answer the door but that was childish. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere, at least not just then. 

"You look half starved. What do you want to start with?" John asked as he came back to sit down and opened the plastic bag.  
Sherlock watched as he unloaded everything from the bag and started to open the small boxes. 

"You remembered the naan I like." he said with a small smile. 

"No, you just always want what I've got. It's the naan I like." John teased. 

Sherlock grinned for the first time that night and John felt a bit lighter. He missed Sherlock's smile, missed everything about him. He watched for a bit as the detective ate with abandon before his own stomach started to yell at him. 

"I saved you some." Sherlock said with a mouth full of food. 

John smiled and took the piece of naan from his hand. He picked up one of the boxes and began to eat. Sherlock finished off what he wanted, going through four seperate boxes and leaving not a trace behind, and finally lay lengthwise with his head on the arm of the sofa and his toes tucked under John's thigh. 

John let one hand rest on a bony ankle and Sherlock sighed happily and closed his eyes. 

The rain was hitting the windowpane with increasing strength and now that the sun was completely gone the room felt somewhat removed from the rest of the world. It felt like their playhouse. Like a place where the two of them pretended the human race didn't exist. 

John felt a flutter low in his stomach at the thought. That was it, wasn't it? That was what made Sherlock special. The madman made you feel as if you were seperate, whether that was good or bad, and the amount of focus he lay on you was overwhelming even in the quiet moments. Just now as John was finishing his meal the toes under his thigh seemed to pull him in, ground him in that spot. 

John didn't realise it went both ways but then again, John was pretty good at not seeing anything beyond Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock had no way of telling him how intrinsically John was bound to him. How much he'd scratched himself below the surface and become one with the genius' atoms, the very stuff of him. 

How, after all, does one explain the pull of John Watson? How does one put it into words. It wasn't something obvious, Sherlock knew that, it was more. Sherlock had seen something in him the day they met, something shining below the surface, something hidden. He'd not realised he was gone until it was too late. 

Chinese water torture, yes. John Watson was like Chinese water torture. Small bits added to small bits and suddenly you were broken and pleading. The look of amazement, the upturn of a lip, the long suffering sigh. All those little things that Sherlock had begun to catalogue, the things he couldn't delete. How open John was with his expressions, how unguarded...and then, oh, then he would try to stop it. He would clear his throat and look away and send you to your knees. 

When they met John Watson was a slight discoloration at the edge of the lens, something that made you want to get out a cloth and scratch, but nothing more. 

One week in and everything seemed John-coloured. Tinted, perhaps. The way Sherlock ate his toast had changed, hell, the fact that he ate the toast was a change in itself. 

One month and Sherlock couldn't tell where his and John's consciousness split. He took clues from the doctor's behavior, watched him instead of the suspect. John had turned out to be his greatest tool yet. Always with his finger on the pulse of humanity. Observing him was amazing. Even when he was wrong he would be wrong the way a NORMAL person was wrong. He was a compass and one which Sherlock thought he'd never have to do without.

Sherlock fell into the easy monotony, not realising its true nature was the comfort that he'd always needed. It was having that wrenched away that did it. Being without John made everything sour. Being without him turned things gray. Tasteless after a point. 

When he came back to find that things had changed, that John was no longer his to have, it shocked him. There were women, of course, there were always women, but Sherlock and John were a unit. They were joined and that was a fact. The wrenching Moriarty had done turned out to be more dramatic than even Sherlock's fall. 

Burn the heart out, indeed. Tear it out. Leave him bleeding as it's handed to another. 

"No one ever told me how all-consuming nostalgia can be. Just another reason to avoid sentiment at all costs." Sherlock said, lacing his fingers together and proping his head up a bit. 

"Is that your roundabout way of saying you miss me?" John asked, eating the last few bites and setting the box down. 

"How is Mary?" Sherlock said quickly. 

"Sherlock." John sighed, stomach knotting and pain creeping into his features. 

"What? I'm not allowed to ask about your wife?" Sherlock said with a small frown. 

"Why are you doing this? Things were...things were going well." John let his head fall into his hands and scrubbed strong fingers through his short hair. 

"Things were going well and then I brought up your wife. What exactly were you hoping to accomplish tonight that you would want to forget you're married?" Sherlock prodded, eyes opening and searching John's face frantically. 

"I don't want to think about her when I'm with you!" John shouted, jumping to his feet and clutching at his thigh. 

"Why? How is thinking about her when you're with me bad? What are the two of us fighting over, John? Without knowing, I might add!" Sherlock demanded, standing himself and squaring his shoulders. 

"You're not...I didn't mean for this to happen." John replied, hand going up to Sherlock's arm.

"What are you saying?" Sherlock asked, voice shaking. 

"I'm saying I would have waited for you. One word and I would have waited." John shrugged and refused to meet Sherlock's eyes. 

"But now you love Mary." Sherlock said weakly. 

"It's not the same." John whispered. 

"That doesn't matter, John. You had a choice. You chose her."

"I didn't bloody know, okay? I didn't know you were...that you felt...it wasn't an informed decision." John scrambled to make some kind of sense. 

"You didn't know I loved you." Sherlock replied softly. 

John turned and met his eyes. "How could I...how could I know?" he asked, reaching up to grip Sherlock's shoulders. 

"I thought it was quite obvious. Then again, you always have been rather slow." Sherlock teased as he took a step closer. 

"What do I do now? Tell me what to do, please." John begged, unable to discern it himself and growing quite weary of trying. 

"I can't tell you what to do." Sherlock replied, brushing his fingers against John's hip. 

"Tell me what you want, then." John said breathlessly. 

"You. Only you. Always you, John." Sherlock murmured. 

John reached up and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He breathed deeply before pulling him down and locking their lips together. 

It was a bad idea. A horrible idea. Kissing Sherlock was one of the worst ideas he'd ever had. Sherlock was kissing him back, pulling him forward and pressing him against his front and his tongue was dipping between his lips. It was bad. So bloody not good. He realised then, as Sherlock growled into his mouth, that he needed a barrister. 

He needed a barrister and he was going to divorce his wife. He was going to leave his wife for his best man. It was like a bad romance novel. He was going to-

"Stop thinking and touch me." Sherlock groaned. 

John had to listen, would always listen. He tightened his fingers in Sherlock's curls and wrapped his other arm around his waist, hips stuttering as he felt Sherlock becoming hard. The idea of Sherlock aroused, of Sherlock aroused because of him, was unreal. He'd dreamt of this for so long. He rolled his hips and the detective let out a soft sigh. 

There were footsteps on the staircase but neither man heard. 

"I swear, this one will be worth it. You've got to get out-" Lestrade began as he walked through the front door. 

He stopped when he saw the two men tangled together and cleared his throat. John took a quick step back and turned a bright pink all the way to his ears. A sort of fog rolled in between his ears and everything felt fuzzy. 

"Didn't know I'd be interrupting." Lestrade said quickly. 

"Greg, this isn't what it..." John began. 

Sherlock looked over at him with undisguised hurt and he stopped himself. 

"This is exactly what it looks like." he amended. 

"Right, well, none of my business, really." Lestrade answered nervously, hands deep in his pockets and refusing to meet either man's eyes. 

"The case." Sherlock said, stepping forward and looking a bit like himself for once. 

"Yeah, yeah. The case. Well, I think it's at least an eight. Two bodies found in the Thames. Will you come?" he asked, trying his best to sound professional.


End file.
